The Thief
by Shenzuul
Summary: Maka confronts the white-haired, red-eyed thief who stole her bike. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Soul Eater_ or _Don Camillo._ Thus, the credit for this story must be split between Atsushi Ohkubo and Giovanni Guareschi.

"Oh, no," breathed Maka, heart sinking. Adjusting her grip on her shopping bags, she walked over to the bike rack for closer inspection. No, she hadn't mistaken the place—there was the chain she had used to secure her beat-up bicycle, cut clean through. There were no two ways about it. Her bike was gone. Stolen.

The crestfallen teenager set down her bags and knelt by her ruined chain. The padlock, at least, seemed undamaged—a small blessing. Pulling her key out of her trench coat pocket, Maka removed the lock and slipped it into one of her shopping bags. The chain she left behind, the remaining pieces too small for her to use. She would have a buy a thicker, and therefore more expensive, one next time. Grimly, she calculated the cost of replacing both bike and chain. It wouldn't be easy, even if she bought used. She was going to have skip a few meals over the next month and put off replacing her worn out boots for a bit longer.

_Who would even _want_ to steal my crappy old bike?_ she wondered grouchily, standing. _If _I_ were going to take a bike, I'd at least go for something that didn't look like it had been salvaged from a scrap heap._ She sighed, reigning in her temper. _Not important, Maka, _she chided herself. _Right now, I just need to worry about getting home._

Maka lived in an apartment approximately five miles away from the Death Mart where she had come to do her grocery shopping. She didn't own a cell phone, and even if she did, there was no one she could call to ask for a ride. None of her friends owned a car, her mother didn't live in Death City, and she refused to even consider accepting any sort of help from her philandering father. She probably had just enough money on her to get a cab ride home, but with a month or more of skimping on basic necessities and scrounging for spare cash to save up for a new bike, she was reluctant to use it.

Which meant that she had one option: walking.

Sliding the straps of her canvas bags up to her shoulders, Maka set off for home, resigned to her fate. She was a brisk walker, but laden as she was with a week's supply of food, it would probably take her nearly two hours to make it back to her apartment. She hoped her milk would last that long. Eyeing the overcast skies, she prayed that the impending storm would wait for her; in the meantime, she optimistically told herself that things could be _much_ worse.

There was a police station between Death Mart and Maka's apartment, but the girl did not bother to stop to report her stolen bike. She doubted that the police would put forth any effort to find her cheap, rundown piece of scrap metal. Maybe if she were a wealthy, well-endowed woman whose fancy car had gone missing, the police would care enough to actually look, but a poor, plain schoolgirl wasn't likely to attract any aid in searching for one pathetic bike.

Maka pulled the collar of her coat higher up around her neck and straightened her back. She kept her expression carefully blank, but something about her eyes and the way she carried herself warned passersby away. The few people who were either oblivious to her _don't-mess-with-me_ aura or too compassionate to heed it were quickly dodged when they approached to offer her assistance in carrying her bags. The men were additionally rewarded with death glares that sent shivers down their spines.

For an hour, Maka walked without stopping. Her bags dug into her shoulders and elbows painfully, and her mood steadily worsened. As she moved away from the busier thoroughfares and the skies darkened, the streets slowly emptied, until she was the only creature left on the sidewalks. Every now and then, a car or taxi passed, and she pressed herself closer to the buildings lining the road and the security of the shadows, wary of being seen out alone.

At a bench set beside a street lamp, Maka paused to give her sore arms a short break and to redistribute the weight in her bags. As she glanced around the deserted street, her eyes fell upon a small alley that branched off from the main road. She started.

There, resting against the wall near the entrance of the alley, was her bike.

Maka hastily gathered her bags and strode over to the bicycle to examine it more carefully. It was definitely hers. The chipping paint was the exact eye-searing shade of orange that hers had been, the metal peeping through the cracks was thoroughly rusted. There were the two rips in the leather seat through which the padding poked out, and there the crooked left handlebar, bent when she had crashed into a parked car while swerving to avoid a little girl who had darted in front of her as she passed. The back wheel was missing a spoke, and the basket had been attached to the handlebars through improvisation with a red bungee cord.

Dazed, Maka reached out a hand to touch the bike. Cold iron met her fingers. It was really there—not just a dream. She glanced over her shoulder, but the street was empty. Not a soul was in sight. Frowning, she took a few steps forward and peered down the alley. There, slouching against the alley wall, was an old man.

Or at least, she thought he was an old man, until he lifted his head. Maka was surprised to find that underneath the mane of messy white hair was a pair of fierce scarlet eyes set in the face of a boy no more than a year or two older than her. She blinked as the boy shot a look at her that clearly said, _What do _you _want?_

"Excuse me," Maka called timidly. "This bike is mine."

"What bike?" the boy asked coldly.

"This one," Maka returned, gesturing. "The one leaning against the wall."

The boy shrugged. "If there's a bike leaning against the wall, and if the bike is yours, what do I have to do with it?"

Maka hesitated. "Well…" she began. "I was just asking. I didn't want to make a mistake."

"You sure it's yours?"

"Definitely. I brought it to the Death Mart downtown an hour ago and locked it up while I went into the store. I not sure how it ended up down here."

The boy chuckled. "Maybe it got tired of waiting for you and went on ahead."

Maka raised an eyebrow. The boy watched her in silence for a few moments.

"Hey, Tiny Tits, can you keep a secret?" he asked suddenly.

"My name is Maka," the girl huffed, crossing her arms over her small bust.

"Yeah, whatever. Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes."

"Fine. Then I can tell you that the bike is here because I brought it here."

"Did you find it somewhere?" Maka inquired.

"Yeah. I found it outside the Death Mart you went into. And then I brought it here."

Maka stared at him doubtfully. "Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?"

"Oh, come on," scoffed the boy. "Do I look like the kind of person who goes around playing practical jokes? I'm way too cool for that. No, I took it in all seriousness." He smirked, showing off pointed teeth. "But then I changed my mind. I followed you for two miles and then cut ahead of you to leave the bike where you would find it."

Maka cocked her head. "Why'd you take the bike if it wasn't yours?"

The boy shrugged. "That's what I do for a living, Tiny Tits."

Ignoring the jab, Maka queried, "Has that always been your job?"

"Nah, only for the past two or three months. Usually I just work the stores and the crowded tourist areas, or the streets where all the rich people live while they're all off at work. This morning, though, I was short on luck, so I took your bike. But I happened to see you leaving the store, and I couldn't help but stay and watch your reaction. You didn't even say anything when you realized your bike was gone—you just stood there with the most pathetic look on your face. Then you started walking. I didn't get it at all. I had _no choice_ but to follow you. You didn't call a cab or a friend, and whenever someone was about to offer to help you, you turned away. Did you _know _that I was following you, or something?"

"No."

"Yeah, well, I was there. If you had just accepted somebody's help or grabbed a ride, I would have turned around and been done with it. Instead, you just kept walking and walking, holding your stupid heavy bags. I had no choice but to do what I did."

Maka absently brushed a ponytail over her shoulder. "Where are you going to go now?" she wanted to know.

The boy shrugged. "Back downtown to see if I can find something else."

"Another bike?"

"Yup."

Maka considered this. "Then you can have mine."

The boy laughed humorlessly. "No way, Tiny Tits, not if it were made of gold. I'd have that on my conscience for the rest of my life. Better to stay far away from stupid, stubborn, skinny schoolgirls."

Maka studied the boy intently. "Hey, have you had anything to eat yet today?" she asked suddenly.

He blinked. "No."

"Then come to eat at my house," Maka invited.

"Wha—"

"Look, there's a cab!" Maka interrupted. She waved to the taxi driver. "You take the bike and follow me to my apartment," Maka instructed hurriedly as the taxi pulled up to the curb. She quickly gave him the address. "It's just down the street. I'll go in the cab. See you in a bit!" Before the boy could get another word in edgewise, Maka climbed into the yellow car and slammed the door behind her.

The boy stalked out of the alley and watched the taxi speed off down the road. Thoroughly pissed off, he let loose a stream of colorful and inventive swearwords. Yanking the creaky orange bike away from its resting place with more force than was strictly necessary, he threw his leg over the seat and set off after the strange, bossy girl who seemed intent on interfering with his life.

Maka had already been at home for ten minutes when the boy arrived at her apartment with the bike in tow. She told him to bring the bicycle inside and park it by the door before leading him to her small kitchen. "I'm boiling spaghetti," she informed him cheerfully. "Help me set the table?" Without waiting for a reply, she shoved two plates and sets of silverware in his hands and pushed him toward the table. Grumbling unintelligibly, the boy did as she asked while she pulled spaghetti sauce, parmesan cheese, and leftover salad out of the fridge.

"By the way, I never did catch your name," Maka hinted as she refilled the napkin holder at the center of the table.

"It's Soul Eater," muttered the boy.

"Soul Eater? Are you a weapon?"

"Yeah," he admitted.

Maka's expression turned thoughtful as she turned off the stove and poured the spaghetti into a colander. Noticing Soul Eater hovering awkwardly behind her, she ordered, "Sit. Dinner's ready." The boy obediently took a seat, slouching forward to rest his elbows on the table. He watched her closely as she scooped spaghetti onto his plate.

"I'm going to have trouble going back to stealing bikes," he mumbled. "You've totally killed my mood for it."

Maka, hearing him, inquired, "Do you have any family?" She served herself and slid into the chair across from Soul Eater's.

The boy shook his head. "I'm on my own."

"Well, you could always stay here and be my weapon," Maka suggested nonchalantly, sprinkling parmesan onto her pasta. "I'm a meister, but I haven't partnered up yet."

Soul Eater stared at her. "But…I've never been anyone's weapon before. I don't really know how it works."

Maka rolled her eyes. "A guy who knows how to steal a bike could learn to be a weapon in no time."

Soul Eater glared at her. "Go to hell, Tiny Tits!"

And he stayed to be her weapon.

**Author's Note: **I borrowed this plotline from a chapter of Giovanni Guareschi's _Don Camillo_ entitled _La Bicicletta._ My copy of the story collection is the dumbed down version for people who are beginning-level Italian readers, so I've probably missed some of the finer points, but I still thought it was hilarious. But yeah, this about 90% not-original material (i.e., not my idea). The conversation between Soul and Maka at the entrance of the alleyway is a very close translation of the Italian dialogue.


End file.
